The Greatest of These
by bhoney
Summary: What is it about the Winchester men that holds them together, even when the whole world's against them? A look at what makes them special.


_Originally published in Blood Brothers 6. Thanks to everyone that takes time to read and review. It's really encouraging to know my stories are still being read, even though I've been away for a while._

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><p><strong>The Greatest of These<strong>

Dean Winchester remembered the past.

He remembered soft hands, warm against his face, brushing hair out of his eyes when tucking him into bed. He remembered gentle kisses and quiet prayers and assurances of angels watching over him while he slept. He remembered hot fire, and the heavy weight of the baby thrust into his arms, and wanting his mom _so_ bad, and knowing she was gone forever.

He remembered standing next to her grave, feeling as if the world had stopped and not knowing how to start it again. Seeing dirt thrown down onto the empty casket and feeling like it was him being buried. Wanting to choke from the suffocating feeling of not being able to breathe.

He remembered his mother. Not much—just sweetly scented glimpses of her through the mist of the past—but enough to give him purpose. To remind him they did what they did for a _reason_. For _her._

He remembered other things too: his dad sweeping him up into his arms, _so_ high, holding him against his broad chest, voice deep as it teased him, fingers gentle as they tickled laughter from him. He remembered being held when he was sick, the rumble of his dad's singing against his ear more soothing than any medicine. He remembered playing catch, and the big hands that had held his and taught him to tie his shoes. He remembered those hands pushing him on swings, putting on Band-Aids, tousling his hair, showing him how to hold a wrench. Shoving baby Sammy into his arms and scooping them both up to save them from the fire.

He remembered his dad. Not the steely-eyed hunter he'd become after that night in the nursery, but the loving daddy he'd been all the years before. He'd been Dean's hero long before he'd become an anonymous hero to the world. And every time Dean looked at him, he couldn't help but see a glimmer of the dad he'd known. Maybe fate had known he'd need those memories to ensure his unwavering devotion to the hard man his father would become. Had known that he'd need the reminder of that gruff, open affection from a loving dad to pledge his unquestioning obedience to the drill sergeant that had taken his place.

He missed that dad and wondered sometimes what it would've been like to be taught to drive by that laughing, teasing man, as a nervous fifteen-year-old riding around in some store parking lot, rather than as a scared ten-year-old learning to drive as a matter of life or death, knowing one day he'd be called on to drive his dad to the emergency room and that on that day, his dad would be so injured that he might die if Dean couldn't get there fast enough.

He felt disloyal even thinking it, but he wondered how much more he would've enjoyed learning to shoot if the knowledge hadn't come with the weight of his family's lives on his shoulders.

He remembered baby Sammy, too, from Before. Remembered innocent eyes staring up at him, delight on the small features at every new thing he saw. Sammy had been a good baby, hardly ever crying before That Night, when after, that's nearly all he'd done for months. Dean didn't blame him. He'd have cried too, if the fire hadn't eaten all his tears.

He remembered holding baby Sammy and playing patty-cake with him—just a big brother having fun with his little brother, before the weight of his brother's life had been thrust on him in that one, searing moment. From then on, he'd felt the responsibility for taking care of Sammy—_saving_ Sammy—so keenly that it rarely let him relax enough just to have fun with the little brother he loved. He'd gone from Sammy's playmate to his caregiver, and Dean never forgot what an important task he'd been trusted with. He didn't mind looking after Sammy, but he missed it sometimes—getting to be silly and do things just to make Sammy laugh, rather than having to make sure he did his training and had everything he needed for school, making sure he followed all their dad's rules and that no one grew suspicious of their dad's long absences and tried to take Sammy away. It was exhausting, especially as Sam grew more and more resentful of the life they led and looked for more and more ways to rebel. It was hard to hold it all together—watch over his dad, take care of Sam, keep them off Social Services' radar, keep them all alive.

What made it worse, though, was that he remembered how it had been before it had all been ripped away. He remembered it all, in a way Sammy never could, because he hadn't been old enough to know the family they'd been Before—warm, loving, fun…whole. Sometimes, in dreams, he was part of that family again, instead of the hard, fractured, darkly-driven family they'd become since that night's events.

Sometimes Dean wished he could forget, because it would be easier not to remember. Easier not to mourn for the family he'd lost. Easier not to fear losing what family he had left. Easier not to know that another kind of life was possible, just not for him—never for him.

But he couldn't forget. And he wouldn't let the thing that killed his mom get away with what it had done to her, to all of them—leaving Sammy without a mom, leaving their dad broken. No, they would find it, and they would take it down. It was just a matter of time. Until then, Dean was determined to take out every evil thing that came his way. No way he was letting what happened to them happen to another family.

Dean Winchester was cursed with memory.

That memory gave him purpose.

xxxXXXxxx

John Winchester endured the present.

_Never give up. Never back down._ It was all he knew. When trouble comes for you, you come back harder. It was what a Marine—a Winchester—did. The temptation was there, but he knew Mary would never forgive him if he took the easy way out and ended things. And he couldn't do that to his boys—they'd suffered enough. But he couldn't move on, either. Couldn't make himself let go of the only woman he'd ever loved.

He'd wanted to bury himself in a bottle and never surface, to dive so deep into drink that he couldn't even remember all he'd lost. Heaven knows, he'd wanted that. But he couldn't afford the loss of control. Needed to have his wits about him to keep his boys safe. Mary's boys. All he had left of her.

That's not to say he didn't drink more than he should. A sip of painkiller here, a shot of numbness there—just enough to take the edge off. And maybe he took more than a sip as the boys got older, more able to take care of themselves, less vulnerable. But even then, he never let himself drink so much that he couldn't respond to danger, should it appear. Never let himself get falling-down, can't-remember-your-own-name, all's-right-with-the-world drunk.

No, he only allowed himself to numb the pain _that_ way once a year. Not on November 2, the day she'd been taken from him—he'd already let down his guard once on that date and look what had happened: he'd nearly lost all of them. No, November 2 was a day for standing watch, for extra vigilance.

But who could blame him if he needed to drown the memories on their anniversary? It seemed a reasonable enough request. That was the day the memories would flood him so strongly that he felt he would surely choke and go under, taking the boys with him to the muddy depths. So he tried to drown his memories before they got to him.

Just one day. That was all he asked. The rest of the year, he let the memories drive him, let their jagged edges cut his soul till it bled vengeance, and then used the blood to fuel the fire that burned in him continually.

Way he saw it, there was no use thinking about the past—it was dead and buried and all that lay there was a wasteland of memories that would choke him dead if he stopped to dwell on them. Future was pointless, too. He didn't see much of a future for himself, anyway. He'd probably die young; the hunting life didn't exactly encourage longevity. He was okay with that. All he asked was to go down fighting, taking out the thing that had stolen his life, stolen his boys' lives, stolen _Mary._ He hoped he'd be around long enough to see the boys grow up, but if he did, it would be a surprise. No, the present was all there was.

What he did couldn't be called living, per se. It was more like…enduring. Enduring life until death set him free and he could be with Mary again. He felt like giving up all the time, but forced himself to soldier on. It was all he could do.

_Put one foot in front of the other, Marine. Keep going. A few more steps and maybe you'll find out what took your wife. Just. Keep. Going._ It was all he had: the struggle, the fight. A battering ram against the gates of Hell. So he focused on each hunt with a single-minded determination, never letting himself see beyond the step he was on, never looking toward the future his actions were creating, just taking each step toward his goal with dogged determination. _Never give up. Never back down. _He had to believe that, in the end, it would be enough.

If there was one thing John Winchester had, it was endurance.

That endurance made him strong.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam Winchester dreamed of the future.

He wasn't like his dad and brother—he couldn't remember the past, what their family had been like Before, couldn't remember his mother at all. And he _sure_ couldn't stand the present—the hunting, the constant moving around, the endless training.

All he wanted was to stay put, to set down roots, to be like everybody else. Was that so much to ask? He hadn't signed on for the Special Forces, for heaven's sake, hadn't chosen to give up his life to their family's infernal cause.

He didn't want to know there were things out there in the dark, let alone live his life chained to their destruction. He didn't want to live in the dark, period. He craved the sunshine, the freedom to walk outside in the daylight and not look behind him to see if anyone followed. He wanted to spend his nights sleeping in his own bed in his own place, not skulking around graveyards and digging up corpses. He wanted the innocence of enjoying a starry night on the beach with the girl of his dreams, not a life where he dreaded the darkness because he knew what could be lurking in it.

He wanted sunlight and picnics and college classes and parties with his friends. He wanted to buy the things he needed with money he'd earned with his own two hands, not with a credit card he'd applied for using a fake name. He wanted to go to the same places, day after day, and for the people there to know him by name. He wanted to be _real,_ not some alias with a made-up backstory that changed from day to day, week to week, until he wasn't sure _who_ he was anymore.

He wanted the respect and admiration of his teachers and other respectable people. He wanted to _be_ somebody, to be successful, to not always have to hide in the shadows so he didn't draw too much attention. He wanted to learn things for the joy of knowing them, not because his dad or brother's life might depend on that knowledge.

He wanted to be free. Free to see where life might take him, once he was no longer shackled to his dad's vengeance. Free to follow his own path, not one that had been marked out for him since he was six months old because of an event he couldn't even remember. Free to become his own man, whatever that might look like.

And he wanted to be free of the burden of responsibility that pressed on him like a weight on his chest. He didn't want to hold his dad and brother's lives in his hands. Didn't want to be what stood between the world and the evil that lurked out there, waiting to devour it. He just wanted to be Sam. That was all. A normal guy, with a normal life, normal job, normal hopes and dreams. Boring wouldn't bother him, either. He'd had enough excitement for a lifetime already.

Change was coming, Sam was sure of it. He believed in it, waited for it, watched for opportunities. He would have that normal life one day, if it was the last thing he ever did. He would go away to school and study to be…something. Didn't matter. He would get out of this life, would be free. Somehow, he would do it. Someday.

All Sam Winchester had were his dreams.

But as long as he could dream, he had hope.

xxxXXXxxx

Past, present, future—three strands of one cord. Remembering the past, enduring the present, dreaming of the future.

They were Winchesters—three sides to one pyramid, the strongest shape known to man. Different, but complimentary. Separate, but equal.

They were family. And, in the end, that was stronger than all their differences, all the things that tried to keep them apart. It was the lifeline that bound them together, tied them to a common purpose, anchored them to hunting. It was what got them through.

Purpose, strength, and hope…but the greatest of these was love.

xxxXXXxxx

"…_And a three-fold cord is not quickly broken." Ecclesiastes 4:12_

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><p><em>Author's note: I just recently published my first novel, a young adult paranormal romance called WHAT DREAMS MAY COME. As a way of thanking the authors and reviewers on this site for their support of my writing, I'm giving away a couple of free copies through my Facebook Author page (look for Beth M. Honeycutt on Facebook or follow the link in my profile). Hope to see you over there!<em>


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